Eagles fly, p.27
Eagles Fly, page 27
He sat down at the booth and ordered breakfast from a black waitress who flashed him a smile.
“Where you from anyway, good-lookin’?” the young woman asked.
Kelsey looked wearily up at her, confused. “Pardon me?” he said.
The woman looked at him strangely for a moment, then went away. He went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. A black man stared back at him in the mirror, and Kelsey almost turned around to see who was standing behind him when he realized that he was the black man, which explained the waitress’s friendliness.
Back at his booth he waited until the waitress came with his food and then he managed a smile, and remembered his British accent. “Sorry, love, I’m just a bit tired.”
“Sure,” the woman said, setting his plates down in front of him, and then she left.
He was going to have to watch himself carefully. Once he got to New York, he was going to have to remember who he was now. He was no longer Dr. Richard Kelsey, white, well-to-do plastic surgeon. He was a black man. An African.
After he had eaten his breakfast he felt somewhat better, although he was deeply tired, and before he left the diner, he called North Central Airlines and found out that the first flight direct to New York left Milwaukee’s Mitchell Field at 7:00 A.M. He made reservations in the name of Robert Smith, the best he could do in his condition.
Downtown, Kelsey found a parking ramp where he left his car on the top level, hiding the guns and his remaining medical supplies in the trunk after giving himself the last of the stimulant. Then he threw the keys in a trash bin on the first level, walked four blocks until he found a cab waiting in front of a hotel, and ordered the driver to take him out to the airport.
The remainder of that day, the twelfth, seemed unreal to Kelsey, fighting off the effects of his operations, his gunshot wounds, his lack of sleep, and the cumulative effects of the stimulant on his overworked heart.
He slept fitfully off and on during the flight to New York, then made his way to the cab stands at the front of the terminal.
The midday sun was bright although the weather was cool, and he was nearly on the verge of collapse when he slipped into the backseat of the first cab.
“Where to, buddy?” the driver said, half-turned in his seat.
“I need a hotel,” Kelsey mumbled. He tried to make his brain work. Tried to think out what his moves would be over the next few days. There were several items he needed, and he would have to have security. “Harlem,” he told the driver. “I need an inexpensive hotel in Harlem.”
“Out, nigger,” the driver said.
Kelsey just looked at the man, in a daze.
“I said get the fuck outta my cab, nigger. I don’t do Harlem.”
Kelsey started to protest, and the cabby raised his voice.
“You want me to call a cop and I will. You’ve gotta be on something, so I don’t think you want trouble. You want to get to Harlem, get yourself a spade driver. Now, get the fuck outta my cab.”
He mumbled his apologies, got out of the cab, and four taxis down a long row, found one with a black driver, who agreed to take him into Harlem.
Only vaguely did he understand what was happening to him when the driver helped him into a lobby, took some money from him, and an old man helped him into an elevator and then into a bed. And then he dreamed.
He was running through the snow naked, but for some strange reason, he was burning up. Far ahead of him he could see a woman being beaten up by two large men. They were hitting her over the head with large clubs. But no matter how fast Kelsey ran, he could not seem to get any closer. He was sure that he knew the woman, but he could not see her face in the distance, and yet he was frightened because he knew that the two men would kill her before he could come to her rescue.
He was also aware, from time to time, of a flashing orange light, and twice there seemed to be someone standing over him, asking him questions, and feeding him, but he was never sure if that was part of the dream or of reality.
And then he awoke, the sun streaming in the window, and the first thing he was aware of was a large, jagged crack that ran completely across a dirty, plastered ceiling. He sat up in bed with a start, his head spinning and his left arm throbbing.
“You into some pretty heavy shit, my man.”
Kelsey snapped around toward the sound of the voice, the motion causing a wave of dizziness and nausea to course through his body. But when his head cleared he could see an old black man, his face vaguely familiar, leaning against the doorframe. The door was open.
“Where am I?” Kelsey said, the words croaking out of his dry throat.
The old man laughed. “Where is he indeed.” He laughed again. “My good man, you are in paradise. That is, the Paradise Hotel in the heart of Harlem. Where’d you think you were?”
Kelsey stared at the old man for a long time, until he became aware that he was wearing no clothes. His eyes flicked around the room, and he saw that his trousers and jacket were lying over a chair, and his shirt lay crumpled in a heap atop the bureau.
“You were in powerful bad shape when you showed up on my doorstep, my man. And I suppose you’ve been up to some kind of no good.”
Again Kelsey turned to the old man. “How long have I been here?” he asked. His kidneys ached almost as badly as his left arm, and he felt weak and dragged out.
The old man laughed even louder, “I’d say just about two hundred and eighty-nine dollars and sixty-seven cents worth, that’s how long you been here.”
Kelsey’s eyes flicked to his clothes.
“Yup,” the old man said. “Got every last cent of it. But then I don’t suppose you’d be turning old Abraham in to the police now, would you? No, don’t think that’s hardly so.”
Kelsey flipped back the covers and carefully got out of bed, the room spinning around for several moments, and then he sat back down. “What day is it?”
“What day indeed,” the old man said. “Why, it’s the day of reckoning, I suppose. The fifteenth day of March.”
For several long seconds what the old man said did not sink in, but when it did the information hit Kelsey hard, and he struggled again to his feet, his knees weak, his stomach flopping over, and his head threatening to burst at the seams.
It was today. This day. He had been unconscious for the better part of three days.
“Hold on now,” the old man said, and he came all the way into the room and helped Kelsey sit back down on the bed.
“The World Peace meeting,” Kelsey said. “When is it scheduled for?”
The old man looked down at him, his face seemingly at the end of a long tunnel. “What you saying?” he said, his voice far away.
“The big meeting at the UN. When is it?”
“I suppose it’s happening right now,” the old man said. “It’s all honky bullshit anyway.”
Kelsey pushed away the old man’s hands and once again got to his feet, this time the dizziness and nausea coming at him less strongly. “I’ve got to get out of here. I need a gun and some clothes.” Kelsey tried to make his brain work. What was it they called the robes? Then he had it. “Muslim robes. That’s what I need. Black Muslim robes.”
The old man stepped back as if he had been slapped, and Kelsey took a step toward him.
“You’ve got to help me. Please. There’ll be money in it for you. Lots of money.”
“Money?” the old man said, obvious interest in his eyes.
“Can you get it for me? I need a gun, too.”
“You’re talking big money, my man. Even if it is for the brotherhood,” the old man said.
Kelsey lurched forward and grabbed the man’s shirt. “I’m talking five thousand dollars if you can get the stuff there within the hour. Five grand.”
The old man licked his lips. “You just a jive turkey. You got no money like that.”
Kelsey tried to make his brain work. “Money,” he said. “You’ve got my credit cards. Felsen Holding Company. That’s the big time. I work for them. They’ve got the money.”
“You the token nigger?”
“I’m the goddamned owner,” Kelsey shouted. “One hour. Five grand.”
The old man looked at him.
“Please …” Kelsey cried. “God … please, you’ve got to help me before it’s too late.”
“I believe I will, brother,” the old man said, moved. “I do believe I will.”
The cold winter wind blew up the East River, whipping the water into whitecaps and blowing the robes of Salese Kotura, one of the emissaries from the African nation of Botswana, as he got out of the cab in front of the UN headquarters building.
Thousands of people jammed the driveways and parking lots, and soldiers and police were everywhere.
“Botswana,” Kelsey said to the cordon of police guards around the front entrance as he pushed his way through the crowd. He had no idea what procedures were being used to check in the delegates, nor did he know if what he was doing would work. He just had to try.
A harried cop looked up at Kelsey and shook his head. “Your delegation is already here …” he started to say, but then stopped in midsentence. “Botswana?” he asked.
Kelsey nodded, his heart hammering.
“Moment, sir,” the guard said, looking through a list. A moment later the man looked up, a smile on his face. “Your delegation is inside, sir. You’ll have to go in and get your credentials.”
“Of course,” Kelsey said.
The crowd was pressed to within a few feet of the security station just outside the main doors, and they were shouting and screaming, some of them watching Kelsey with curiosity.
“Just inside,” the guard was saying. “You’ll see the credentials desk to the right.”
And incredibly Kelsey found himself passing through the doors inside the UN building, and he stopped short. Ten feet inside the front doorway his father and several other men were deep in discussion.
Kelsey moved slowly toward the right, but his father turned and glanced his way, and then looked again. A moment later he said something to the men he was with, broke away, and came over to Kelsey.
For a long moment both men stared into each other’s eyes, and then the elder Kelsey motioned for his son to follow him.
It was all over. He had failed. And now he was going to his death. All those thoughts ran tiredly through Kelsey’s brain, but he did not care any longer. His father had gestured for him to follow, and he found himself following the old man across the main lobby, down a crowded corridor, and finally into a small office.
The old man closed the door behind them, then turned to stare at his son. “Ingenious,” he said after a long moment. “We knew you’d be coming as a representative of Botswana, but we never dreamed you’d be coming as a black man.”
Kelsey stared dully at his father.
“I expected as much from you, Richard,” the old man said with fatherly pride in his voice. “Your only mistake was the desk encyclopedia you left open back at Sharpenberg’s cabin. It gave us the clue, But you’re too late.” He glanced at his watch. “In five minutes Engstrom is going to be speaking to the General Assembly, and when he is finished the world will be ours.”
“Why?” Kelsey croaked. He was on the verge of collapse, his body on fire.
“World peace,” the old man said, but Kelsey was shaking his head.
“Why did you kill Colleen and then Marion? Why, Father?”
A look of pain crossed the old man’s features, and he took a step forward and laid his right hand on his son’s shoulder.
“I did not want to do that to you, Richard. If it would have been within my power, it would not have happened. None of this would have happened.”
“Then stop it,” Kelsey said with passion. “Please stop it before it’s too late.”
The elder Kelsey shook his head. “It’s already too late.”
Kelsey looked into his father’s eyes. “How did you know it was me out there?”
The old man’s face contorted into a friendly grin. “You could never hide from me. I’d know you anywhere.”
“No!” Kelsey shouted, and he pushed his father’s hand away from his shoulder. “Stop this now, Father! I beg you, before it’s too late.”
“I can’t, Richard,” the old man said.
Kelsey backed away. “Then I’ll stop it,” he said. He reached inside his robe and pulled out the .38 snub-nosed revolver the old man at the hotel had given him.
His father stepped back and reached for the phone on the desk, but Kelsey was on him instantly, shoving him aside.
The old man lost his balance and was flung to the floor, his head bouncing on the bare tiles with a sickening thud. A moment later blood poured over the floor, and Kelsey was beside his father.
“Dad,” he cried. “Jesus, what have I done?”
The old man’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow. “Richard,” he whispered.
Kelsey felt for his father’s heartbeat, which was weak and erratic. “I’ll get an ambulance,” he said, but his father grabbed his son’s arm.
“Eagles fly,” he whispered, the words half dying in his throat.
“An ambulance,” Kelsey said, but his father’s head rose up out of the growing puddle of blood.
“Eagles fly,” the old man croaked. “The key … eagles fly …” And then he slumped back to the floor, his grip on Kelsey’s arm loosening and falling away, the final breath wheezing out of his body.
“Father?” Kelsey cried. “Father?” But the old man was still.
After a long time Kelsey was aware of Engstrom’s voice speaking from overhead, and he looked up. The General Assembly speech was being piped into this room.
He put the pistol back in his robe, and then gently picked his father up, mindless of the hurt in his arm and side. Carrying the old man’s frail body, he trudged out of the office and down the corridor toward the huge doors that led into the General Assembly.
Only a few people were left in the corridor, and they shrank away from Kelsey carrying the bloody body of his father. At the doors to the General Assembly, two guards stepped forward and one of them started to speak, but Kelsey cut them off.
“This is the body of August Kelsey, a member of the World Peace Commission. Step aside.”
Eagles fly. The two words screamed in Kelsey’s brain. He had no idea what they meant, he only knew that his father had given them to him as a dying legacy. A gift for his only son. And he would use them, even if it meant the end for him.
The guards fell back, and one of them opened the doors.
Kelsey strode into the huge hall and carried his father down the wide center aisle until he came out from under the low ceiling that supported the press rooms and gallery above, and then he was in the assembly hall proper.
As he walked it was as if he were moving in a pocket of silence that followed him, like a seashore wave that paused on the beach and then rebuilt to a murmur behind him.
Halfway down the aisle, Engstrom, standing at the podium with the huge UN symbol on the wall behind him, stopped his speech and watched Kelsey coming.
Engstrom turned and said something to a uniformed man seated behind him. A half-dozen guards carrying rifles converged on Kelsey, who stopped about a hundred feet from Engstrom.
Kelsey looked up at the man, and even from this distance he knew that the President was an imposter. He had known the man as James Locke. But he was certain that the man had gone under many different names in the past.
The armed guards nearest Kelsey were raising their guns now, and Kelsey, not knowing what he was doing, only following the last words his father had spoken to him, shouted at the top of his lungs: “Eagles Fly!”
Engstrom stiffened, almost as if he had been slapped, and Kelsey screamed again.
“Eagles Fly!”
“Yes, sir,” Engstrom shouted. The guards racing toward Kelsey stopped in midstride and looked uncertainly back toward the podium.
“Eagles Fly!” Kelsey screamed a third time.
“Jawohl, mein Herr,” Engstrom’s voice thundered through the General Assembly.
“Who are you?” Kelsey shouted.
“Reinhardt Mueller,” Engstrom’s voice boomed over the PA system.
“Where were you born?” Kelsey yelled.
“Leipzig, Germany,” Engstrom snapped, his body at rigid attention.
“Who do you work for?” Kelsey screamed, his father’s body slipping from his arms and falling to the floor.
“Der Organisation der ehemaligen SS Angehörigen Engstrom shouted proudly.
Epilogue
It was late summer and Kelsey, fully recovered now from his reconstructive operations, got out of his car and trudged up the narrow path between the gravestones, finally stopping at two small markers.
He had just come from the grave of his father, and earlier today Sam Sharpenberg’s, and now he stood looking down at these two tablets, tears coming freely to his eyes.
One of the stones read:
Colleen Susan Kelsey
Née Stewart
1952–1979
The other read:
Marion Elizabeth Kelsey
Née Bloggs
1949–1982
He remained by the graves for a long time, conscious of nothing other than his own deeply aching heart. For a while he let his mind wander down the corridors of time because finally he had been able to separate his memories of both women.
And for a time he was almost happy in his thoughts of the two women he had loved, but then his remembrances turned to the happenings of the past two months.
All the members of the so-called World Peace Commission, other than his father, had somehow managed to escape. No one as yet knew where they were. Nor, Kelsey thought, was anyone trying very hard to find them. Everyone wanted to forget.
Engstrom, or actually the man named Mueller, had told the entire world the story that day under Kelsey’s questionings. The revelation had shaken the U.S. government, but within a few weeks everything had begun to return to normal.
The world, Kelsey thought, looking up finally, was all right after very nearly failing. And despite the accolades that had been heaped on him, he had escaped most of the notoriety by keeping a low profile.
